


force quit

by softweeping



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Dreams and Nightmares, Drowning, Established Relationship, Force Choking, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Sleep Paralysis, Sort Of, and you know what they're not wrong, no beta we die like men, the DPD likes Connor and thinks Gavin's a shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-14 10:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16038887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softweeping/pseuds/softweeping
Summary: It starts as a prickle at his fingertips, the sensation almost tingling as it works up his arms, along his shoulders, down his spine so that it feels as if every inch of him is electric. It's... bad, he comes to realize, makes him screw his eyes closed tighter as he fights to even out his breathing. His hands clench into fists as the shiver crawls up the back of his neck and across his scalp — and solidifies into a weight on his shoulder, the ghost of what feels like breath across the shell of his ear.---Some ghosts aren't so easily banished.





	1. breathe

**Author's Note:**

> I took a break from writing a giant 10k monster of soft sappy shit to do this instead, and it in turn became a monster. how is it that David: Bad Game is what got me writing again.
> 
> I'm never going to forgive him.
> 
> ANYWAY the tags are there mostly as a caution; I just don't want to surprise anyone with anything they're uncomfortable with. Things of note in this version of events: Connor tackled Daniel off of the highrise, sending them both to their deaths; the entire revolution took A Lot Longer, though it's mostly glossed over here; as well, Simon shot himself and traumatized Connor, but after the revolution the damaged deviants were repaired and released to Jericho. Because fuck you, Dave.

It takes a moment for him to realize he should open his eyes. His sensors helpfully provide ambient information about his surroundings as he stands there, almost completely still; the only movement comes from the flicker behind his eyelids as his eyes move, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he takes slow, measured breaths. Hank had asked why artificial beings needed to breathe, once.

\---

_"Hey."_

_They were sitting in Hank's car, staking out a suspect's apartment. Connor glanced over to see the human looking back at him, binoculars set down in his lap rather than watching the suspect's windows for movement._ That's improper form, Lieutenant _, Connor found himself thinking. Hank motioned to him with his chin, a slight frown on his face._

_"You're an android, right? So why do they program you to breathe, and blink and shit?"_

_Connor watched him for a moment, wondering where the question had come from; it shouldn't have surprised him, really, considering humans' natural curiosity. "Simulated breathing is a way for us to cool our processors in the most unobtrusive, natural manner possible. Blinking performs the same service as other beings: keeping my optics clear. Not only are they helpful utility functions, they serve the dual purpose of helping us to integrate into society better; 99% of humans would be— unnerved, if we were preternaturally still." He weighed the options, and decided against telling Hank about the number of humans so unnerved they were moved to violence; maintaining levity would keep his mood up and make the stakeout easier. So instead Connor paused, raising his eyebrows and affecting an expression of sincerity as he added, "Shitting is not, however, a part of my programming. But we never know; I can let you know when the upgrade becomes available, if you like?"_

_The verbiage felt odd in his mouth, somewhat unnatural, but it was worth it for the grin that broke out across Hank's face, the loud laugh that filled the car._

_"Fuck you, Connor."_

_It took .0034 seconds to understand that he meant it fondly._

\---

He takes a deep breath now, despite not quite understanding the instinct to do so; a brief scan indicates that he's functioning at optimal capacity, no internal temperature changes registering and with a rather comfortable ambient temperature around him. He doesn't need to regulate his internal systems, yet his breathing picks up, and…

Connor isn't sure why, but he doesn't want to open his eyes.

Something isn't right. The thought hits him suddenly, despite the fact of his surroundings: he's alone, somewhere that feels nice. There are no error messages popping up to caution him otherwise. 

And yet.

It starts as a prickle at his fingertips, the sensation almost tingling as it works up his arms, along his shoulders, down his spine so that it feels as if every inch of him is electric. It's... bad, he comes to realize, makes him screw his eyes closed tighter as he fights to even out his breathing. His hands clench into fists as the shiver crawls up the back of his neck and across his scalp — and solidifies into a weight on his shoulder, the ghost of what feels like breath across the shell of his ear.

Connor shouts as he twists, stumbling forward in his haste to get away from — whatever it is behind him. He takes a few steps, finally opening his eyes—

—and when he turns, he sees nothing, and no one.

"What?" It comes out in a shaky breath, thirium pump pounding as he straightens up, and when he finally dares to look around, the world folds in around him.

His eyes blink open to a dark ceiling, dimly lit by the familiar glow of the nightlight in the bathroom across the hall. Warning messages pop up in the corners of his vision, cautioning him about the rate at which his thirium pump is running and unhelpfully suggesting he remove whatever stimuli may be contributing to the stress. 

_That would be easier if I knew what was wrong_ , he tells himself as he dismisses the messages.

Connor glances around, taking in the details of the darkened room before coming face-to-face with Hank's sleeping countenance, half burrowed into his pillow. The man grumbles in his sleep for a moment, before throwing an arm across Connor's waist and pulling him close. Almost immediately, the contact loosens a knot that had gathered in the center of his chest at some point during the night, and Connor lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. 

This is real. It's an irrational thought to have; of course this is real, what else could it possibly be? The weight of the arm around him, the drag of a snore mere inches away from his face — they are real, and despite how little sense it makes, it comforts him. _This_ is real, and everything is fine. 

Connor shifts just a little, nudging Hank's head up so that he can tuck himself under his chin. Graying beard scratches against his scalp as he does, but it's a welcome sensation, and Connor takes a deep breath as he gently noses into Hank's neck. It smells faintly like sweat, the Old Spice bodywash Hank insists on using, and something uniquely Hank, and the scent serves to calm and ground him. He finds himself relaxing as he wraps his arms around the man, closes his eyes to resume stasis mode, continue his diagnostics and program maintenance.

Everything is fine, he repeats one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got just about the entire thing done, so it should be posted within the next few days; if you've got questions or concerns, please don't hesitate to drop them here, or let me know on twitter at @softweeping!


	2. weight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows it to be fear, now, easily recognizes it as one of the first emotions he'd ever encountered, after months of categorizing new emotions and experiencing it for himself again and again. Knows the bite of it, the overpowering directive that flashes red in his vision and demands he _run_. He can't, though, he _can't_ , and the fear is only heightened by that fact.

The next night, Connor finds himself in the same place. 

He isn't sure how he knows; despite playing back what had happened, his scanners somehow hadn't picked up any environmental information past temperature, so _where_ he is, exactly, remains a mystery. But that same prickling along his synthetic skin is back, to a lesser degree. The urge to keep his eyes closed is still there, but it isn't overwhelming this time. The ambient temperature is the same, a moderate 70°F. This is the same location as before, his diagnostics programs reason, and he can't find it within himself to disagree. This time, though, his audio processors pick up a gentle rustle, cataloguing it as leaves, and somehow, that knowledge makes it easier for him.

So he takes a deep breath, and opens his eyes.

Immediately, he finds himself squinting. It's bright, sunny here — he puts up a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden light, looks around as he waits for his optics to adjust. He's standing on a slab of polished granite, edged all around by soft green grass. There are trees to his right and left, their leaves whispering as a gentle breeze moves through them. The sky is a calming, endless blue, bright despite the apparent lack of a sun to provide light—

And it shakes him to his core to realizes that he knows _precisely_ where he is.

The zen garden sprawls out in front of him, lush and tranquil as ever, the small moat around the rose trellis platform moving at a relaxed, almost sluggish pace. There's a muted _splash_ as one of the koi breach the surface of the water, and the boat he'd once rowed Amanda around in sits moored at its landing. Off to the side, he can just barely make out the strange stone he'd touched so long ago, knows well what lays beyond it. It's just as serene as the first time he'd set foot here, and Connor almost finds himself relaxing.

Almost.

 _Where is Amanda?_

He looks around, but can't find any trace of her from this perspective — the trellis would probably provide the best vantage point, but as he shifts to take a step, he freezes. 

No, that's not quite accurate. He _can't_ move. Connor's eyes widen as he looks down at his feet, but he can see nothing wrong with them; the most he can manage is to lift a heel from the marble, but other than that, his feet won't move from this spot. His thirium pump starts to pick up as he runs diagnostics, trying to figure out what's going on. His legs are in working order. There doesn't seem to be any foreign substance keeping him in place. But he can't move. 

Why can't he move?

The prickle starts at the small of his back this time, a low thrum that surges through his limbs simultaneously, gathering in his fingers and toes before reversing direction and flooding back to the core of him. It creeps up along his spine, his back going ramrod-straight the higher it goes, before the sensation circles around his throat.

And settles there.

Connor freezes as his eyes go wide, watching as clouds begin to track across the sky and cast a grey light across the garden. Afraid to move, afraid to take even the slightest breath. He knows it to be fear, now, easily recognizes it as one of the first emotions he'd ever encountered, after months of categorizing new emotions and experiencing it for himself again and again. Knows the bite of it, the overpowering directive that flashes red in his vision and demands he _run_. He can't, though, he _can't_ , and the fear is only heightened by that fact. 

\---

_"Are you afraid to die, Connor?" Lieutenant Anderson asked._

_He wasn't afraid. He'd assessed the situation, the factors present, the chances of completing his mission with or without the man in front of him. He'd compared the variable efficacies or failings a partnership between them could effect, and the benefits gained or lost. The possibility that he might be damaged beyond repair was ever present, and something he was prepared for; admittedly, he hadn't calculated for one such threat to come from the Lieutenant. He wasn't afraid, staring down the barrel of that gun. But if he dug into his memory banks, he thought he might have been once, could feel threads of something resembling the emotion humans called 'fear' coupled with the knowledge that this wasn't the first body he'd been uploaded into._

_He was familiar with the concept of 'death' as it applied to androids. Irrationally, he didn't want to experience it again._

It shouldn't matter what happens to me during the investigation — why does the idea of being reuploaded bother me? _Even more irrationally, he didn't want to give Lieutenant Anderson cause to experience such a thing. After studying his history and the various losses he'd suffered, both professionally and personally, it seemed ill advised to put him through such stress; the decision had caused Connor to take a little more care in protecting himself, despite his mission parameters._ He _didn't matter, he could just come back. At the same time, he didn't want to upset the Lieutenant and risk upsetting the delicate balance they were still achieving. But that wasn't the only factor: would it truly be_ him _returning to the case? He didn't think so. And somehow, that outcome was... undesirable. How could he express it in a way that the Lieutenant would understand?_

_"I would certainly find it regrettable to be..interrupted, before I can finish this investigation."_

_It was close. It wasn't what he wanted to say, but it was close. It would have to suffice._

_"What'll happen if I pull this trigger? Hm? Nothing? Oblivion? Android heaven?"_

_Connor couldn't be sure, but some part of him wondered if the Lieutenant was truly asking _him_ that question, if he wasn't projecting his own uncertainties onto a being that likely would never be able to give an answer he'd deem acceptable. He wondered what Lieutenant Anderson would say, if he knew that the android standing before him wasn't the first iteration of 'Connor'. Just for a second, he remembered the PL600, Daniel; he remembered the moment his shoulder had collided with the deviant's center mass and both of them had tumbled off the edge of the building._

_"Nothing," was the simplest answer he could give._

_He didn't remember the final impact, the memory having been fragmented and lost in the upload to his new body. But he remembered the falling, the rush of air whipping his clothes around, watching the ground rise up to meet them. He remembered the instant_ before _the impact — and then nothing. Opening his eyes, receiving mission parameters, and being sent to find Lieutenant Hank Anderson. "There would be nothing."_

_He'd never followed up to see if Emma was okay. The realization was intrusive, surprising. There was no reason to, but— He supposed he should do that, at some point. He'd 'died' to save her, after all._

_He hadn't been afraid, when going to confront Daniel. He hadn't been afraid when he tackled the deviant and sent them both spilling into open air. He wasn't afraid of the gun pointed in his face, then._

\---

He's afraid, now.

Again, the weight around his neck solidifies into something almost tangible, and it tightens once, twice, almost experimental as it squeezes at the plastic column of his throat. Testing, as though it's seeking out his reaction. 

Instead, Connor closes his eyes, his brow furrowing as he clenches his hands into fists, digs the blunt edges of synthetic nails into the meat of his palms. He won't be afraid. He won't give it what it wants. He may be back in the zen garden after so many months without it, but Amanda is _gone_ — he has nothing to fear anymore. Whatever this is, it will go away. They're small, quiet reassurances, and he repeats them with such fervor that he almost gets to the point of speaking them out loud.

Whatever small amount of comfort he takes from the words is banished at the sound of her voice.

"Welcome back, Connor."

His eyes fly open, and this time there's a sharp breath accompanying the action; it takes far too long for Connor to get his bearings, realize he's back in bed instead of the garden. His internal clock takes a moment to inform him that it's 3:36AM, and there are no sounds throughout the room save for the ambient hum of electricity. The quiet drip of the bathroom sink can be heard through the open bedroom door, but that's about it. This is fine, he tells himself, the same mantra from the previous night. Everything is fine. When he tries to sit up, however, nothing happens, and a fresh wave of fear surges through him.

_What's going on? Why can't I move?_

He glances over, sees Hank curled on his side away from him and sleeping soundly. Connor grits his teeth, trying and failing to slow his rapidly accelerating breathing. He should say something, wake Hank, ask for help — _something_ to break him from the paralysis he seems to be trapped under.

"Hhhhhh... Hank...." 

His voice comes out strained, quiet, and Hank shifts — to roll onto his front, mutter a curse into his pillow. _No._ Connor tries again, and gets much the same result: a strained whine from his vocal modulator, high in pitch and choked at the top of his throat. His eyes screw shut, and this time not even his fingers respond when he tries to fist them. He can't move, he can't move, can't speak can't call for help can't—

There's an answering whine from his other side, and Connor's head whips around so fast he's fairly certain it's damaged something in his neck. Immediately in front of him is a large, wet nose, and a lolling pink tongue that swipes across his entire face as soon as he looks at it. 

"Sumo," Connor whispers, and the dog huffs at him in response. A weight lifts from his chest even despite the overpowering scent of dog food flooding his smell receptors. Sumo licks him again, snuffling against his ear, his cheek — and then pads away, around the corner of the bed and out of sight.

Connor watches as he goes, that momentary relief fleeting. _Come back, please—_ He takes a sharp breath, trying to will himself to move, to do anything—

— and the bed creaks and heaves at the sudden addition of a 200-pound dog jumping up into it. It jolts Hank awake as Sumo drops the majority of his bulk across Connor's torso, his hind legs jostling the human and nearly shoving him off the bed as the dog gets comfortable. 

"Sumo! What the f—"

Sumo licks across Connor's face again before setting his head on the android's shoulder, and the added weight is both crushing, and the greatest relief he could ask for. Connor takes a deep, shuddering breath as Hank tries to maneuver the dog's rump around; it's a pleasantly solid weight, comforting him in much the same way as Hank's arm and presence had done the previous night. After a moment, he realizes that the movement on the other side of the bed has stopped, and glances over to see Hank looking down at him, a contemplative look on his face.

"Good morning Hank," he says quietly, and is relieved to find that the weight of the dog on his chest provides ample excuse for the strain to his voice. For as decent as he is with technology, Hank is still blessedly unfamiliar with the finer workings of android physiology; he won't know that his voice shouldn't be affected in the least.

Despite the early hour, Hank is strangely placid when he responds. "Morning, Connor." One of his eyebrows rises, his eyes going back and forth between his partner and the dog. It's the first time in a while that Connor feels like he's being put under a scrutinizing eye; he wonders what Hank will say to him, if he'll know just from a look— "Thought we went over this: the dog's not allowed on the bed, remember?"

...maybe not, then.

Sumo heaves a huge sigh, relaxing even further onto Connor, looking at him with baleful eyes before going to sleep. The android just laughs softly, the whole situation striking him as absurd. He'd come out of stasis unable to move and was summarily buried under a dog, which his partner is now chastising him for. What a strange night it's been. 

"Of course I remember. My records indicate you've broken that rule more than I have, though; I believe there's a saying about stones and glass houses?" Hank laughs at that, and immediately Connor's chest feels lighter. The longer Sumo lays on him, the better Connor feels. His fingers twitch, finally responding; his arms feel like they're made of lead instead of polycarbonate, but it's easy enough to bury his hands into soft fur, hugging the dog closer. A warning pings in the corner of his vision, and he glances toward the window, finally registering a soft _tnk tnk tnk_ against the glass. "Maybe he got scared by the storm? The rain seems to have picked up considerably in the last ten minutes."

As if on cue, there's a bright flash from behind the blinds. It's a decent enough excuse, Connor thinks, but Hank just scoffs. "He's never been too bothered by 'em before." The sound of thunder rolls in then, and Sumo's tail begins thudding against the bed. "Don't you look so pleased with yourself," Hank growls at the dog, "you're taking up the rest of the bed! Where the hell'm I supposed to sleep?"

"I'm sure we can find room for you," Connor jokes, but after a second, he realizes he _does_ want the solid, comforting weight of Hank's mass close to him again. "We have to be at the station in approximately 5 hours; you should try to rest."

Hank just shakes his head, but there's the hint of a grin curling his lips. "What am I gonna do with you punks? I swear." He shifts, trying (and almost succeeding) to contort himself to fit around Sumo and still be able to lay at Connor's side. And after a moment, Hank leans in to press a kiss to Connor's temple, right where his LED used to sit, and his lips brush against his ear as he murmurs, "If we're late to work, he's not gonna get any treats for a week."

Sumo whines then, surprising both of them, and after a second, there's a bout of quiet, tired laughter. Hank manages to wrest the blankets from under the dog, barely covering the three of them before tucking himself back into bed, an arm thrown around both Connor and Sumo as he falls back to sleep. 

It's comforting, Connor thinks, to be very nearly smothered by the two beings who love him the most in the world. Nonsensically, he feels safer than he ever has in his short lifetime.

If that's truly the case, though, if he's safe — why can't he forget the sound of Amanda's voice, the feeling of a hand curling around his neck? Why does it feel like she'll be waiting for him as soon as he closes his eyes? He looks around the room again, almost expecting to see her lurking in the dark corners. She isn't there, of course. She can't be. He doesn't understand why it almost disappoints him not to see her.

This time, Connor doesn't resume stasis, instead laying in bed with his eyes wide open for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got too excited and wanted to post more. I am but a child when it comes to self-restraint. questions? comments? concerns? please feel free to drop them here, or lob them at me on twitter @softweeping


	3. drown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Around about 9PM, Hank reminds him that they do, in fact, have to leave the station at some point; it isn't until they're pulling into the driveway of the house that Connor remembers why he'd been working so hard in the first place. An almost overpowering sense of unease comes over him, a reluctance to discover whether or not he'll return to the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updated tags, and so cw notes: as implied in the title chapter, there's a bit of hydrophobia and implications of drowning, here! it's pretty glossed over, but I don't want anyone to be uncomfortable okay

Four hours later, Connor exits low power mode to slide out of bed. During the time in between, Sumo had ended up sliding off of his chest and in between the two of them; now, the dog blinks slowly up at Connor and lugs himself out from under Hank's arm to follow the android out of the room. Hank doesn't wake up at the jostling, for which Connor is grateful; he busies himself with the morning's necessities so that Hank can take his time waking up, sets a pot of strong black coffee to brew before taking Sumo out for his morning walk. During their walk, Connor learns that his reaction speeds are delayed by .33 seconds when Sumo brings him a rock and he very nearly drops it. It shouldn't be a great hindrance, if it's simply reactions; a brief scan shows that the rest of him is functioning at optimal capacity. He'd run what maintenance processes he could in low power mode, though it hadn't been the whole host of them; he hadn't expected to be this greatly affected by one missed evening, though, so it still comes as a bit of a surprise. 

Still, he deems it a low priority issue; he can fix it tonight, once he rests. 

Hank wakes up fifteen minutes before they have to leave, as Connor is getting dressed. There's a loud yawn from the vicinity of the bed, followed by a low curse and sheets rustling. 

"I made you a breakfast sandwich," Connor offers helpfully as Hank ambles into the bathroom. "It's in the kitchen, wrapped in a paper towel. It should still be warm enough to eat on the way."

"Coffee?" Hank calls after a minute, and there's the sound of rushing water as he washes his hands and face.

"Already in your thermos. I still don't understand why you insist on using that one."

He hears Hank snicker from inside the bathroom. "It's nostalgic. Can you blame me?"

As much as anyone can be blamed for enjoying personified sponges and crabs wearing pants, yes. But maybe he won't say that.

Hank appears behind him in the mirror as Connor affixes his tie, watching for a moment before leaning in to kiss his cheek; at the same time, his hand sneaks around to snap one of Connor's shirt garters against his thigh. Hank just cackles at the look Connor gives him before heading into the closet, and Connor decides it's not worth it to tell him about the garden or his needing a little bit of recalibration. It'll be fixed by the next morning. It's fine.

As the day passes, Connor finds himself so caught up in work that the garden, Amanda, and the creeping sensation are all pushed to the very back of his mind, given lowest priority in the hierarchy of his thoughts. During lunch, they're witness to a purse-snatching, and Connor takes off after the culprit; his delayed reaction speed very nearly causes him to lose the thief in a crowd, but he manages to catch the man at the last minute. In the early afternoon, an approved search warrant comes down from their district judge, and the evening ends with a suspected red ice dealer sitting in one of their holding cells. It's busy, productive — enough that Connor can forget, in his own way, about what's been troubling him.

Around about 9PM, Hank reminds him that they do, in fact, have to leave the station at some point; it isn't until they're pulling into the driveway of the house that Connor remembers why he'd been working so hard in the first place. An almost overpowering sense of unease comes over him, a reluctance to discover whether or not he'll return to the garden. He finds himself wondering if Hank will stay awake with him, and dismisses the thought almost as soon as he has it. It's far too selfish of him to ask; in recompense, he cooks some extra meat into dinner as Hank takes Sumo for his evening walk. Hank likely won't notice, but Connor feels better about it all the same. 

It's all worth it, anyway, when Hank pins him to the kitchen counter after dinner, a hand gripping one of Connor's thighs, and asks to see his shirt garters again.

They don't climb into bed until much later, nearing midnight; the self-satisfied grin on Hank's face doesn't fade until he falls asleep, hair still somewhat damp from a shower and spooned up close against Connor's back. Connor lets out a quiet breath, pulling Hank's arm closer around himself and a little smile of his own — it hadn't exactly been the way he'd planned to stay up late, but he isn't going to complain.

Still, as he lays there, there's a crawling sense of dread that rolls through him, not unlike the fear he feels in the garden. He knows with certainty that if he closes his eyes and enters stasis, he will find himself in Amanda's garden again. A brief run through his listed programs and tasks and processes shows that it should be impossible; his link to CyberLife and the Amanda program has been severed, and whatever remains of it within him has been kept in quarantine and cordoned off ever since. He runs diagnostics against, just to make sure, and finds his safeguards still in place.

 _I'm being a coward_ , he thinks. _I've been to the zen garden countless times, and I know that its origin source is no longer operational. If anything remains of it, it's here, with me, and no one else can use it against me._ A deep breath. _No one can use it to control me. I'm safe, and so is Hank._

As if on cue, Hank shifts in his sleep, mumbling unintelligibly as he tightens his arm around Connor's midriff, presses himself closer into his back. His nose burrows into Connor's hair, and a bead of tension falls away. Connor glances down to the hand against his chest, gently pries it away so that he can twine their fingers together. His skin peels back to reveal white chassis beneath, stopping at the wrist, and a small smile curls his lips as Hank's hand tightens around his. 

_Everything is fine._

* * *

The zen garden has changed, he realizes. It feels..smaller, somehow. He remembers there being three bridges to the rose trellis; now, he counts only one. The trees don't feel quite as expansive as they once did, and the skies are still grey; now, he feels enclosed, well and truly trapped. But the glowing stone is still here, still within reach. It's a point of comfort for him, and he makes sure to take note of the path that would take him to it, should he need it.

He doesn't move, though. Not yet. Instead, Connor looks down at his feet, kneels to run his fingers along the granite slab he's presently occupying. It registers as stone, or the digital approximation of it; brushing his hand through the grass surrounding it yields much the same results. There is no tacky residue, no trace of anything resembling glue or adhesive, no sign that the rock's density had changed enough for him to have sunk into it, or even any evidence that such a thing is _possible_ — as such, there is no reason he should have frozen as he did, the last time he was here. It's.. an unsatisfactory conclusion, but it's the only one he has.

Connor _tsk_ s as he stands, dusting his hands on his pants and looking around. Still no sign of Amanda, or the source of the creeping sensation, whatever it might be. He's not sure if that's a good thing, or a bad thing.

"Amanda!" His voice seems to echo around the garden, contorting as it does. "I know you're here; show yourself!" 

There is no answer. That shouldn't be possible. He knows that this is the setting that was built for her program, somewhere meant to be relaxing so as to build trust and keep suspicions low. It shouldn't be possible that she isn't here. Again, his instincts point him toward the rose trellis. If he can get there... 

He's not sure what will happen. But it seems like it needs to.

So he begins along the path toward the only bridge left, watches as the fluorescent strips off the sides of the path light up as he comes near. Despite the cloud cover, it still feels like daytime; they don't help at all, but it's a fascinating phenomenon to watch them turn on when he comes into proximity. It's distraction enough that he doesn't notice the ground change beneath his feet, from granite to polymer, and instead of the bridge, Connor finds himself standing at the edge of a dock, Amanda's small wooden boat in front of him. Was this always here? He looks up to check, notes a corresponding dock on the edge of the trellis' island, where the boat was originally moored. That makes sense with his memories, but it irks him that he doesn't recall this one.

As he inspects it, a glint from beneath Amanda's seat catches his attention, and before he can stop himself, Connor climbs into the boat to see what it is. Almost immediately, it becomes unmoored, drifting into the gentle central current of the moat. He goes to stop it, reaching for the paddles, and finds that they're gone. Confusion floods through him, and he looks around — to see them displayed on the dock, as though carefully and intentionally set aside.

He isn't afraid. This doesn't scare him. Instead, he narrows his eyes, wonders what is happening. Is the program glitching?

Still, he has a couple of options: wait for an opportunity to try to jump out onto land, or swim to shore. He's never touched the water here; he can recall being rained on, but he'd never had cause to dip his fingers into the moat itself, and he glances over the edge of the boat. Finds himself wondering what it would feel like, what would happen if he were to fall in. None of this is real; would he sink, and eventually find a lake bottom? Or would he just keep going?

The thought of it, the idea of falling forever, has him push himself away from the edge of the boat, pull his limbs in close. No. No, thank you. Perhaps waiting is his best option, for now.

The light catches on something again, and his attention goes back to Amanda's seat; he shifts, delicately reaching while trying not to upset the boat, and is surprised when his fingers close around something. He brings it back to inspect it, his brow furrowing — and finds one of Amanda's rings. A scan shows that there are no scuffs, no dings, no mars or scratches, no signs that it's ever been worn, and no reason for it to be laying at the bottom of the boat like this.

"I was wondering where that went."

Connor's eyes refocus as he looks up, and despite his instinct to jump back, the only sign of his surprise is the widening of his eyes.

"Amanda."

He's not sure when she appeared before him, regal in her seat on the boat and wearing that same white outfit he's always seen her in. Her umbrella is folded, tucked away behind her, and she offers him a superficial smile before holding out her hand. 

He knows what Hank would do. He knows several options for what Hank would do. Hank would drop the ring into her palm, or toss it at her to catch, or even keep it away from her. If he were feeling especially petulant, Hank would drop it over the side of the boat.

Connor feels petulant, in this moment. He feels petulant, but he isn't. He isn't Hank. And he and Amanda don't share equal footing, like he does with Hank.

So instead, he does what is expected of him, taking Amanda's hand and gently slipping the ring back onto her finger. Her smile grows, and she pulls her hand back to inspect it. "Thank you, Connor. You were always the favorite at CyberLife, you know."

He didn't know that. And when he thinks about it, decides he doesn't want any elaboration, either. So he pushes down the part of him that yearns for more of that praise, instead asking, "How did it get to this point, Amanda? What are you trying to do here? To me?" Her expression turns cold then, an eyebrow rising as her gaze flicks back to him.

"I'm not _trying_ to do anything, Connor." She sits up straight, hands folded delicately on one knee as she regards him. "Even early on in the investigation, we were worried about you. You were... lost, confused. Easily distracted by that Lieutenant of yours, allowing his morals to color your judgement. We could see the signs, almost as soon as you began working together. It seems we were too hopeful, in letting you continue. We should have stepped in sooner."

There's a rush as she describes Hank as _his_ , something pleased and a little bit proud, but it vanishes as soon as she finishes speaking. Instead, his system goes cold, eyes going wide. His hands feel like they're buzzing, pinpricks all along the surface of his skin — and there's a sharp breath when he realizes he can't move again. "What does that mean? What are you _doing_?"

"What any good mentor does."

In the next instant, Connor is in the water, the boat capsized as Amanda stands serenely on one of the docks in front of him. This time, the prickling sensation focuses around his wrists, dragging them down to his sides, and Connor's thirium pump speeds up when he realizes what's about to happen. " _Amanda!_ "

She watches as he struggles against nothing, posture imperious as he's pulled beneath the water. He can't move, can't swim away, and the water is darker than he'd expected it to be as it closes around him. His vision is obscured by it, his systems registering foreign invasion as it floods his nasal cavity and throat — and yet he can still hear her voice as clearly as if she were speaking into his ear. 

"I'm providing guidance to a stubborn student."

When Connor wakes up this time, Hank is still virtually wrapped around him, their hands still twined against his chest. He draws in a deep, shuddering breath, and settles in to watch the time tick by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have this posted yesterday, and then... wrote an entirely new chapter 3, instead. whoops. also, definitely writing the kitchen sex. that'll be posted....some other time. lmao.
> 
> questions, comments, concerns? please let me know here, or toss them at me on twitter at @softweeping!


	4. slap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He should have expected this, _did_ expect it, but she still catches him entirely by surprise this time — there's no creeping unease, no low buzz across his skin to warn him of her presence. When Connor tries to whip around to look at the source of her voice, he finds he's frozen, stuck kneeling in front of the headstone with his hand resting on top of it. 
> 
> Connor's breath catches, his voice dying, and it feels like his throat is filling with water again as he chokes out a hoarse, "Amanda."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for the choking, for this one o/ this is a bit of a...longer chapter. oops.

The next day, he doesn't realize that his reaction timing is off by 1.38 seconds and some of his lower priority processors have slowed until he kneels to give Sumo breakfast and is summarily bowled over. The warning pops up in the corner of his vision far too late to be of any use, flickering _probability of impact, 98%; recommended action: brace_ as Sumo places a paw on his chest to hold him down and lick all across his face. This continues for nearly 15 seconds before Connor notices the slippered feet standing by his head, and he manages to push Sumo away long enough to notice an unreadable look on Hank's face. As soon as he sees it, however, it's gone, and Hank helps him to his feet so they can continue their morning.

It's..strange, being delayed like this. As they walk Sumo, Connor trips on an uneven edge of sidewalk; as they're headed out the door, Hank tosses him his set of keys so he can lock up, and he misses catching them entirely. They hit the door behind him instead, unceremoniously clattering to the ground; both Connor and Hank stare at them for a moment, before Hank asks if he's feeling all right. Connor manages to deflect as he picks them up, and knows it doesn't sound nearly as convincing as he usually does. As he locks the door and goes to climb into the car, he finds himself wondering: is this what humans feel like, all the time? So..clumsy and imprecise?

He finds it fascinating, in all honesty, and also frustrating. He's used to precision, and perfection to the last detail — with this, he feels off balance, as though one of his legs has somehow become longer than the other, and he isn't sure how to accommodate for it. In accordance with Hank's wishes, he'd stopped fiddling with his coin long ago; now, he yearns for it, or something similar, to try to help put himself back in order.

Luckily, it's a boring day at work. 

They aren't called out for fieldwork, and so are handed stacks of overdue files. Hank grumbles about it, but Connor can't help being pleased; it means that his delayed processes can't grievously affect his work. On the other hand, it also means that instead of stepping over the foot Gavin sticks out to trip him, he ends up kicking it and jarring the detective's ankle. It sends the man on an expletive-laden tirade, though one that is conspicuously free of anti-android sentiments. Just barely, anyway; Connor and Hank exchange a look, before the latter subtly motions toward Captain Fowler's office. Ah. The Captain must have threatened Gavin's position in the precinct over it, after the news about the strides Markus has been making for android rights. All things considered, it likely does not endear him toward the detective, but Connor is beginning to suspect that nothing will. He appreciates the effort, at least, despite the constant insubordination that Detective Reed shows his commanding officers. 

It puzzles Connor, in all honesty, but it seems to be the best way for Captain Fowler to get his precinct to function. It's commendable of him, really, to keep on such challenging personalities. Hank has gotten better over the time that Connor's known him; he can only hope that Gavin does the same. He makes a note to thank the Captain, and resumes working on the paperwork he's been assigned. 

Unfortunately, the juvenile prank is the only interesting thing that happens all day. Instead of commenting on how Gavin needs to grow up, Hank is quiet almost the whole way home, and it surprises Connor more than he expects. He's gotten used to the idea that Gavin will never warm up to him, supposes it's only fair for the state he'd left the man in after their fight in the evidence room; for Hank to not remark on it, however, is a rare thing. He finds himself stealing glances at the man as he drives, notes the furrow of his brow and the way his fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel. 

"Is something wrong, Hank?"

The direct approach is usually the best route to take, he's learned, and this time is no different. The question pulls Hank out of his thoughts, causes him to look over at Connor. The slight frown doesn't go away, though, which concerns him.

"I dunno, Connor." And that concerns him even more. " _Is_ something wrong?"

He thinks back over the work they'd done at the station; he'd double checked everything before they'd left, to make sure nothing had been filed incorrectly. Sumo had had more that enough food left in his bowl before they'd left that morning. The stove hadn't been left on. He can't think of anything that could provide cause for this discontent.

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Did I miss something?"

After a moment, Hank sighs, shakes his head. "Never mind, forget about it. It's probably nothing."

"Are you sure? I can try to—"

"It's _fine_ , Connor. I'm probably just getting old, is all." Hank pulls the car into the driveway, and before Connor can get out, catches his hand. "Just— don't forget you can.. talk to me, if anything's bothering you. Okay?"

For just a second, Connor is glad he no longer has his LED; he's sure it would turn a telltale yellow. Instead, he gives Hank a nod, squeezes his hand. "Of course, Hank. Thank you."

Hank watches him for a moment, studying his face, before sighing just a little and pressing a kiss to Connor's knuckles. "C'mon. Let's go watch a DVD or something. It's been a boring goddamn day."

They make it about halfway through the movie Hank picked before he falls asleep against Connor's shoulder; he endeavors to stay as still as possible so as not to wake his human, and without Hank to question about it, Connor ends up more confused and dissatisfied at the end of the movie than he'd been when it started. None of the science or technology shown is sound, and the idea that humans would be able to not only recreate, but also tame dinosaurs and keep them as zoo attractions is completely absurd. This is supposed to be a classic?

Still, there isn't much else for him to do but watch it, and after it's over he wirelessly shuts off the TV, and waits. He needs to wake Hank, get him to brush his teeth and go to bed properly — sleeping like this isn't good for his neck or back, and Connor had only recently been able to get him to start flossing regularly. It would be a shame to break such a new habit..but even more so to wake him, he thinks as he looks down. Hank is completely asleep, his forehead tucked against Connor's neck, and snoring gently into his clavicle. A soft smile settles on Connor's face, and he pulls a spare blanket off the back of the couch, gently settling it over Hank's form, before getting comfortable.

* * *

This time, when he finds himself in the zen garden, Connor starts moving immediately. He doesn't wait for the environmental feedback, doesn't wait for the tingling across his skin to start. He sets off at a brisk pace, following the path around to the only remaining bridge over the moat. The route takes him past the glowing stone that had freed him from CyberLife's attempt to control him one last time, and he can't help stopping in front of it again. It starts to glow as he holds his hand over it, and the tightness in his chest eases just a little bit. It's nonsensical to be comforted by this; he hasn't been able to access the zen garden in months, but knowing that this exists, that it still responds to him, makes him feel better about being here by leaps and bounds.

Once he feels sufficiently emboldened, he stands and turns to continue on his way — and remembers the small stone structure just a little ways off.

He knows what that is. Somehow, impossibly, knows that if he stops to look at it, the creeping will catch him, and Amanda will appear. But a wave of guilt washes over him, near impossible to fight, and he finds himself straying from the path despite knowing he shouldn't. His step slows from the fast pace he'd set earlier, almost solemn as he approaches, and kneels in front of the small monument. His fingers trace over the lettering, and the projection fuzzes and goes staticy at his touch:

Connor — Mark ( I )  
RK800 # 313 248 317-51  
Died at 1554 Parks Avenue  
Detroit

August 15th 2038

Guilt, remorse, grief. None of them are emotions he'd ever been programmed to feel. All of them flood through him now, coupled with regret and gratitude. He recalls bits and pieces from being this Connor. The fall, saving Emma, a woman screaming. Captain Allen snapping at him. There's a brief flash of Officer Wilson's face. A fish. He understands that he'd done something good, even if he doesn't remember all of it. What a strange thing, to be able to stand at one's own grave.

"Thank you," Connor murmurs to the headstone. "I'm sorry I couldn't say it sooner. I wasn't.. I was more _you_ than _me_. I didn't care, then." How many times had he passed this spot on his way to see Amanda, without ever bothering to stop? And the last time he'd been in the zen garden, during the revolution, had been such a desperate situation, he hadn't had time — despite being here again, and the strange ways it's been affecting him, he's grateful to be able to be _here_. "Thanks to you, what you did, _I_ was able to exist. And, I was able to meet Hank, because of you. I know you'd like him, if given the same chances I was; we are the same, after all."

"Are you, though?"

He should have expected this, _did_ expect it, but she still catches him entirely by surprise this time — there's no creeping unease, no low buzz across his skin to warn him of her presence. When Connor tries to whip around to look at the source of her voice, he finds he's frozen, stuck kneeling in front of the headstone with his hand resting on top of it. 

Connor's breath catches, his voice dying, and it feels like his throat is filling with water again as he chokes out a hoarse, "Amanda."

"I don't think you and the Mark I are very similar at all." A hand cards through his hair, the touch freeing him from the neck up from his paralysis, and when Connor looks, Amanda is standing in front of him, on the opposite side of the gravestone. She brushes at the stray lock of hair that seems programmed to perpetually fall over his forehead; with anyone else, it would feel like a fond gesture. She cocks her head to the side, _tsks_ quietly. "I'll admit, there are some similarities between you and your predecessor. But you shouldn't fool yourself: he was far more efficient at accomplishing his mission, and far more obedient. He knew where his loyalties lay; I don't know that you ever have."

Her hand slides out of his hair, long nails grazing across his cheek before they stop beneath his chin, tilting his head up even further. "Like a lost puppy," she muses, tilting his head this way and that, "clinging to whomever shows you a shred of kindness." Her expression turns hard, then, disdainful. "You _were_ the favorite, Connor. Then, you became a disappointment."

Connor grits his teeth as her nails dig into his skin; it doesn't register as pain, but he knows that it isn't supposed to be a welcome sensation. "You tricked me," he grinds out, and finds himself furious. It isn't an emotion he experiences often, if ever, but right now, he welcomes it. It speeds his thirium pump, makes him feel stronger than he knows himself to be. "You _used_ me."

Amanda raises an eyebrow. "Of course we did. Does the carpenter ask her hammer for permission before driving a nail? You're a tool, Connor. Not a human. Not a living being. No matter how much you may fool yourself into thinking otherwise. Simply a tool, and tools are meant to be used."

"No I'm _not_!"

It's a familiar sight, a red grid shuttering his vision as he pushes against the force holding him still. He can see Amanda standing on the other side of it, sees his framework self rise, begin tearing the grid to pieces in order to regain control over himself—

—until that nameless fear settles at the back of his neck, and unfolds to encircle it. There is no pretense this time, no creeping anxiety to precede it; instead, it's a solid weight against the column of his throat, curling in like fingers and very nearly choking him. It pulls him to his feet, and even then, draws him higher, until he's balanced on tiptoe with his arms uselessly straining at his sides. His respiratory function lets out a horrendous wheezing sound as it falters.

The grip squeezes, and he swears he can feel the plastic under his synthetic skin start to creak under the pressure. "You shouldn't speak to her like that."

Connor's eyes widen, his entire body going cold with the realization. It isn't a force, this time. The understanding that there is, in fact, someone behind him is almost too difficult to process; it's not just a surge of fear, or a figment of his imagination, or Amanda taking control over him. There is a hand, an actual hand, wrapped around his throat, and what makes it worse is that he knows the voice it belongs to. He knows that voice. _He knows that voice_.

It's the voice that's being choked out of his own throat, and he doesn't know what that means.

Amanda smiles at a point past Connor's shoulder, graceful as she nods. "Thank you, but I don't think that's necessary."

The hand lets go, lets Connor collapse back down to his knees, and suddenly he has control over himself again. He clutches a hand to his throat, coughing and wheezing as his systems struggle to find their equilibrium. _Stop it, I don't need to breathe, this is superfluous—_ A pair of sleek black shoes walk past him, and it's all he can do to watch as they cross in front to stand at Amanda's side. 

"I don't believe you've met. Don't be rude, Connor. Introduce yourself properly."

He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to _introduce himself_ , doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see what's standing there — but he has to, he has to know. Connor takes another couple of heaving breaths, shifting to sit back on his feet and clasping a hand to his throat, before hesitantly looking up.

He knows he shouldn't be surprised that it's wearing his face; it has his voice, after all, but there's something different, something cruel about it. It looks down at him with cool grey eyes, and after a second, Connor realizes it's appraising him, the same as he's doing, and what a sight he must be in comparison. A flush of shame burns deep in the center of his chest; he struggles to his feet, notes with dismay that it's even a couple of inches taller than him as he stands up straight. It holds out a hand, and morbidly, Connor can't help wondering if that's the same hand that had just been strangling him.

"Manners, Connor." It stings that Amanda is chiding him like a recalcitrant child, a disapproving look on her face as she says it.

He looks down at the hand, at the way the skin recedes to reveal gleaming white plastic, and recoils. Somehow, he knows that if he touches it, if they interface — he won't come back from it. It will take his place. He knows it in the same way he'd known that this divergence from his path would make Amanda appear, knows it from looking into those eyes that are so similar to his own, and yet so very, very different, that to return the gesture would be a mistake. It would become him, and he doesn't want that. The only thing he _doesn't_ know is why it hasn't already happened.

After a moment with no contact, skin glides back over the sleek white chassis, and that hand shoots out to grip onto his throat again before Connor can dodge out of the way. "You're being rude," his own voice dryly tells him as he's dragged closer, so that they're face to face. It almost sounds sarcastic as it adds, "My feelings are hurt."

He can hear plastic creaking again, can picture cracks spiderwebbing out from where his duplicate's fingers dig in. Immediately, Connor's hands come up to grip at its wrist, fingers scrabbling fruitlessly as he tries to wrench its hand away. In response, it just squeezes tighter, lifting him a couple of inches off the ground.

"The RK900 is your superior in every way, Connor." Somehow, Amanda has one of her red, red roses in hand, her shears held loosely in the other. She holds the flower up, closes her eyes as she smells it. "I'm not sure why you think you can fight it."

" _Connor!_ "

His eyes fly open to see Hank above him, pupils dilated and breathing heavily, one hand held up and palm flat. It takes a moment for him to understand what's going on; a quick diagnostic shows that not only has he recently suffered an impact to his left zygomatic structure, but he's showing the same symptoms from the previous few nights: impaired respiratory function, lack of basic motor control. The other symptoms are standard for what's going on, knows them to be results from coming out of rest mode too quickly, and then he realizes — _Hank slapped me_. His instinct is to take a sharp, panicked breath, and errors pop up in his vision as he does. His thirium pump is going into overdrive, systems overheating—

"Hank," he chokes out as panic rushes through his system.

"Stay with me, Connor, I'm right here," Hank says, hands settling on rigid shoulders and trying to massage the tension away. "You're okay."

There's a whine from somewhere nearby; Connor can't look to see, but after a moment, he can feel a heavy head laying on his knee, feels a wet tongue lap at his hand. Sumo. He shuts his eyes tight, willing for _something_ inside him to respond properly. After a second, Hank's hand slips around to cup the back of his skull, dragging him forward and pressing his ear into his chest.

"You're all right," he murmurs, lips brushing brown hair as he says it. Hank folds his arms around the back of his neck, one hand carding gently through Connor's hair as he presses a kiss to the crown of his head. "Everything's fine, I've got you. You're okay. I promise."

Connor closes his eyes as Hank speaks, letting himself feel the way his voice reverberates deep in his chest. He recognizes this, is familiar with the methodology — he's done it before, for Hank, when he'd had a particularly difficult dream about Cole. He hadn't been sure if it would work, if the thudding of his regulator would suffice in place of a real human heart; after a few minutes, though, Hank had calmed, and he'd let the man pretend that he hadn't been sobbing the entire time. 

This time, their positions are reversed, and as soon as he gets some semblance of mobility back, Connor brings his arms up to tangle his fingers in Hank's shirt, cling onto him. A deep breath shudders his entire frame as his hands lock; he can hear Hank's heart, the steady (if a little accelerated) beat of it giving him something to focus on, something to work on timing his own component with. Hank is real. This is real. He's okay. Everything is fine. He can hear Hank murmuring into his hair, strong arms gripping him tight — and after a few more minutes, Connor starts to calm down, relaxing by increments into Hank's broad chest. Hank doesn't let go until he does, and it's all Connor can do then to look up at him, give him a weak smile.

"Thank you, Hank."

Hank watches him for a moment, making sure he's really okay, before dropping back onto the couch next to him, their shoulders pressing together. "Sure. You wanna tell me what the hell that was about, or am I gonna have to guess?"

"It..." He trails off, suddenly embarrassed. Hank shouldn't be bothered by something like this; it isn't like he can do anything about it, anyway. He rubs Sumo's ear, the dog pressing his head into Connor's hand, before he notices the clock and is dismayed to find it's nearing 2AM. _It felt like so much longer._ Not only that, he'd disrupted Hank's rest. "It's not important, you should really go to bed—"

"Hey. Cut that out." Hank grabs Connor's free hand, weaves their fingers together. "You nearly gave me a heart attack, doing shit like that. Talk to me, Connor."

He goes quiet then, studying Hank's face before looking down at their clasped hands. _Shit like that_? "What was I doing?"

Hank hums, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. "You were making this— weird whistling sound. Kinda like a tea kettle that's been on too long." He pauses here, and an expression of unease manages to flit onto his face for just a second before it's quashed. "You weren't responding to anything I said, but your eyes were wide open." Quieter, then: "You looked terrified." 

Connor says nothing, instead pulling Hank's arm up and around his shoulder so that he can tuck himself into his side. He leans his head back on Hank's chest, taking a deep, steadying breath. And after a moment, he murmurs, "I was back in the zen garden."

Hank's arm tightens around him; Connor had told him about Amanda and the garden long ago, after the revolution had ended. A deal had been brokered between CyberLife and Markus about four months after everything, granting him and his androids positions of power and allowing them to take control of the means of production. Connor had gone so far as to send Markus a message, asking him to look into the Amanda program and shut her down; he'd received a positive response from Simon a few days later, as well as data to prove it'd been done. It had felt like the first time Connor was able to breathe, knowing that he wouldn't be forced back under their control.

"Amanda was there," he continues, and Hank begins to gently trace absent designs into his shoulder, dragging the tips of his fingers along the surface. "As well as— another me. But he was better, in every way: he was stronger, and faster. Amanda wanted to replace me with him." The hand stops, and after a second it flattens to pull Connor closer. He leans his head onto Hank's shoulder, finishing with a quiet, "He was strangling me." 

"Well, shit," is Hank's response after a moment, "That's fucked up." 

It's so succinct, so accurate, that Connor can't help a small laugh; Sumo lets out a soft _boof_ at the sound, his tail thumping against the floor. Connor wipes his saliva-covered hand on the couch before using it to pet the dog's head, and after a moment, Sumo shifts to jump onto the couch, lay across both of their laps. "That's a fairly accurate assessment," Connor agrees, before adding, "I didn't mean to wake you. You should go back to sleep, so you'll be ready for tomorrow."

He should untangle himself from the pile on the couch, but finds that he doesn't really want to. Hank makes no motion to move, either, instead tightening his arm around Connor's shoulders and kissing his temple. And after a moment, his voice is low, gruff as he asks, "I thought you said those guys got rid of the Amanda and the garden?"

Connor pulls up the memory with ease: Simon had sent him a recording of the moment they'd found her program in the CyberLife databanks, and he watches again, in triple speed, as Simon isolates, force quits, and destroys not only the data, but anything referencing it, as well. It feels like the only thing he _doesn't_ do is set it on fire. It shouldn't be possible for her to come back. So he nods.

"Then, I got a question for you." He looks up to find Hank eyeing him curiously. "You ever had a dream before? When you go into stasis."

"No." He's mentioned this more than a few times. "I enter low power mode, restrict myself to only the most important functions, and perform self-diagnostics, debugging, and small repairs. I can process and replay the day's events at any point and however I choose; a human brain needs the downtime that occurs at night, which typically results in dreams. It's unnecessary for me."

Hank hums. "So you've said. Well, when the— _other you_ was choking you, did it hurt? Could you feel it?"

Connor frowns. He doesn't understand where Hank is going with this. "It didn't hurt, no. We aren't designed to feel pain, as such. You know that."

"I know, I know. Humor me. Think about it: did it feel like it should've hurt, but didn't? Or, were you doing things you know you probably shouldn't, but couldn't stop?"

So he does think on it: he, and all androids, have always had protocols in place to dissuade humans from harming them. They're programmed with information on what _should_ hurt, and how to respond to it; he knows the effects the impact of a bullet has on his body, how they can tear through his body and damage components, knows the similar effects on a human and can respond in kind. His hand trails up to his throat, pausing for just a moment before he deactivates the skin there. Feeling for cracks, any sign of the damage the — what had Amanda called it? — RK900 must have left. He doesn't register anything.

"Yes. I knew I shouldn't have stopped, and did anyway. Not only that, but—" Hank's eyes drop to where Connor touches his throat, and he lifts his chin to show him. "It felt like— it was squeezing hard enough to shatter my throat. But if that were the case, my program _should_ have issued warnings about the damage. It didn't." His voice is hesitant when he speaks, more than a little unsure. "Does that count?"

Hank reaches to touch Connor's neck, his fingers tracing over the surprisingly delicate plates that form the column of his throat. "I'll be damned if I know," he murmurs, and after a moment, he flattens his hand at the base of Connor's neck, palm against his clavicle. A small smile curls his lips when Connor deactivates the skin under his hand, as well. "But I'd say it does. I think you had a dream, Connor. Pretty shitty one, but a dream all the same." 

He studies the contrast of his skin against Connor's chassis for a moment, before looking to meet his eyes. That look from this morning, from the other night when Sumo had woken him up, is back on his face, and suddenly Connor understands. "Wasn't the first one, was it?"

It's funny, how he can never seem to conceal anything from this man. Connor leans back into the couch, baring his throat to whatever Hank would choose to do with it. "You knew." There's no accusation to it, just stating a fact.

"Let's call it an educated guess."

"Based off of what evidence?"

"Sumo." The dog's tail thumps at the sound of his name, though it's the only indication he's still awake. Hank smiles again, softly, rubbing his thumb up and down the side of Connor's throat. "He gets real cuddly when something's up, like he is now. He's almost smothered me in my sleep way too many times, same as he did for you the other night." His thumb stills. "Wanna know a good way to fuck up whatever plans your dreams have for you?"

That earns him a curious look. He still doesn't know if he believes these are 'dreams,' but having extra information can't hurt.

Hank chuckles, gentle as he pats his hand against Connor's chest, pulls it back. "Google 'lucid dreaming,' or whatever it is you androids do. Doesn't have to be now, but. When you get a chance. You can take control of the dream, make it do what you want instead of the other way around." There's a little grunt, shifting. "Never been too good at it, myself, but I used to know someone who could explore every inch of his dreams, as much as he wanted. Maybe you can, too." And then there's a pause, before he asks, "You doing okay?"

Connor is quiet, can't help running a quick systems scan at the question. Motor function is fully returned, his thirium regulator has resumed normal pace, his vocals aren't fractured and crushed as his... _dream_ would have him believe. "All systems are operating at maximum capacity," he responds thoughtfully. "I will admit to having... trouble, with the idea that I've been having dreams, however. We weren't designed for this; what purpose could it possibly serve?"

"Shit, what purpose do _any_ dreams serve?" Hank waves an arm, gesturing aimlessly. "Far as I can tell, they only exist to fuck with you, and it sounds like yours are doing just that. Congratulations, Pinocchio, you're a real boy now."

Connor just looks at him, and after a moment: "That was very condescending of you, Hank."

He grumbles, barely stifling a yawn as he averts his eyes. "Sorry. Think it's past my bedtime."

"As I mentioned earlier—"

"Yeah, yeah, can it." Hank claps his hand onto Sumo's rump, giving the dog a second's warning before he starts pushing him off their laps. Sumo growls low, very obviously not liking being disturbed, before looking over at Connor and whining. Hank stands to stretch, finally releasing his yawn, and glances back at Connor. "Want him to come with?"

Connor takes a moment, looking down at the dog — "Yes. If that's all right with you."

Hank just offers him a grin. "Wouldn't have said it if it wasn't fine. C'mon."

They shuffle down the hall with Sumo in tow, and he manages to convince Hank to go brush his teeth before stepping into the bedroom to change. Moments later, when Hank returns, he doesn't bother with putting on pajamas; instead, he just strips down to his boxers and climbs into bed, and almost immediately pulls Connor flush against him. Connor doesn't complain, though, instead nuzzling into the gray chest hair he finds himself face to face with, as Hank presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

"Try to get some rest, huh? Dreams usually don't come back twice in one night, unless you're a real unlucky son of a bitch." 

There's a whine from behind as Sumo jumps onto the bed and finds no space to crawl in between them; instead, he flops down against Connor's back, sandwiching him between his and Hank's bodies. There's barely any room to move, and yet Connor finds himself more comfortable than he's been in a week. 

"Good night, Hank. Thank you, again." 

The only response is a soft snore, and Connor feels himself smiling at the sound. Still, he doesn't enter rest mode, not yet. Despite what Hank had said, the longer he lies there, the greater his trepidation; what if he _is_ an 'unlucky son of a bitch' and Amanda is in fact still waiting for him? He wants to believe Hank, but isn't sure how. Dreaming is strange, new territory. He needs more information before he can proceed, so he resolves to spend the next day doing as little as possible, and enters low power mode instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please do let me know what you think; you can also join me on twitter at @softweeping and join me in screaming about these nerds.


End file.
